by the liquor store near the last telephone booth in the city

I left notes all over this town but no one finds them

I keep myself occupied in a world deep inside,
my hands remain tinkering
I don't like to stop
I'll even write until no more ink drops.

It’s not like I write these songs and poems without intent,
I mean—I gently place much tenderness
with thoughtful anguish and forgiven regret
into every line and thought I have left.

I like to dream that every romantic swing of my lips
finds a place to be heard by her
maybe in a place where she's at peace
and no longer running from enemies.

I've seen enough moons in my lonely company,
and I stayed modest, I stayed quiet,
with a sense to remain silent
trusting clocks to chime about my time spent.

But the seasons changed my hands and voice
and even the swing of my lips.
I now let my eyes be pretty but I kept all of my grit
—I still tinker and roam like I always did.

There is something terribly romantic about it
and for me it's the only place not abandoned,
I keep it in a locket like a memory
and I leave them all about waiting for discovery.